Wrecking Of the Coniston

 

The mist moves silent over the waves,

Soothing the dead, in a watery grave.

Long time now since she went down;

Those few brave men so cruelly drowned.

So close to land on tempestuous sea,

With howling gales, that mute their pleas,

For the courage to face their destiny.

 

 She carried a cargo of blood red ore,

The souls of her crew, and a whole lot more.

Was it to Barrow, where she was bound?  

Till the waves, slammed home and ran her aground.

Fear took hold of the crew so brave,

They knew their lives could not be saved.

And all was lost, beneath the waves.

 

The lighthouse blinked and shone out bright,

From Hodbarrow point, that filthy night.

Revealing high waves and driving rain,

Whilst breakers smashed over, her battered remains.

The crew deceased, have left her unmanned.

The boat sat upright, and stuck on the sand,

As foaming white horses, race up to the land.

 

And when the storm, was finally done.

Abating; with the rising sun.

The saddened townsfolk gathered there,

And hung their heads in mournful prayer.

Grown men trembled and women cried,

For those who sailed out on that tide,

The gift of life for them denied.

 

But time, and tide for no man waits;

Each one consigned, to their own fate.

The wreck now buried out of sight,

Not a trace remained, of that tragic night.

While seagulls, circle, up on high.

The wind and waves, heave gentle sighs,

As decades slowly pass on by.

 

Then after more than seventy years, 

The long sunk boat now reappears.

Arising from her quicksand tomb,

A stark reminder of her doom.

Again she rides the wind and waves,

A lonely marker, to mark the graves,

For those whose lives could not be saved.

 

And still she sits upon the sand,

Trapped between the sky and land.

Her broken bows point out the way,

But in the Duddon she will stay.

On stormy nights down by the sea,

The wind still carries the sailor's plea,

For caution, on the Irish Sea.

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